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By Abram Tertz

Little Jinx is a canny mockery of the Soviet international. Its writer, Andrei Sinyavsky, a good member of the USSR's Institute for international Literature, was once uncovered in 1965 because the genuine writer of a sequence of irreverent essays and terrific stories that have been circulating below the nom de plume Abram Tertz. After 5 years in a hard work camp he immigrated to Paris. Little Jinx is the story of a guy named Sinyavsky, a literary hack and runt who clumsily survives repression and anti-Semitism but in addition brings distress to these round him. while this "little jinx" inadvertently motives the dying of his 5 brothers, he's fed on by means of a guilt that turns out common in his society.

About the Author
Abram Tertz is the pseudonym of Andrei Sinyavsky, the exile Soviet dissident author whose works were in comparison to fabulists like Kafka and Borges. Tertz's settings are unique yet accepted and as compelling as these of lunatics and mystics.
Reviews
"[A] easily marvelous mix of the true and the surreal." --World Literature Today
"Its most sensible passages are like desires, bearing philosophical presents in bright, quickly colliding images." --New York occasions publication Review
"[A] masterful story within which the paradoxes of human nature, in addition to the contradictions of heritage, are rooted in religious schizophrenia." --The state

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Example text

You at least know who you arc and why. ” I query. “Who am I? ” But perhaps I am not worse, but better than the rest. Then I think, in self-deprecation, “ But just the same, I am a terribly good person and awfully intelligent. . How does the Lord still manage to tolerate me on Earth? ” No, people like me should be run over. . As you can sec, pangs o f conscience tormented me but little. Most likely conscience has such a property. It also adapts itself to our physical and mental state and to our pid­ dling position in society.

Even for this heavy, matutinal eighteen-wheeler. . No, thank God, it’s still night. But how am I to overcome it, shifting to the next page, to the next day, which I don’t even want to remember? Must I go through it again from the beginning? What’s it to you? You’re just reading! But I’m the one who’s responsible, as we shift into tomorrow. Stay, night; wait a little: it’s already morning! Night, and already morn­ ing----If only I could sink into sleep, so as not to experience the superfluous.

That’s none o f your business. That’s not the kind o f thing one asks about. Don’t you have your workbook exercises to attend to? Well then, get writing and not another peep from you! And stay out o f my sight! ” But I held firm. I thought that the source o f Mama’s and my misfortune and discontent must lie concealed somewhere deep in the shadows o f my provenance. “ You’ll find out on my deathbed! ” As if I wanted her to die. I blew up. It was obvious that she didn’t care about me in the least anymore.

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